


Burden

by HollowPhoenix



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Cooking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Origin Story, Slice of Life, Vilia, link - Freeform, oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowPhoenix/pseuds/HollowPhoenix
Summary: Beside the fire, Vilia discovers that perhaps she isn't such a burden after all.





	Burden

She felt hot in her blood-stained clothes. The sweat made her uncomfortable; it wasn't the same as in Gerudo Town, under the sun's pulse. It was a heat that radiated from beneath her skin, even at night by the fire. She didn't know who she was, she realized. She seemed confused at herself, unpleasant with all this heat, all this sweat.

Her companion, however, remained unchanged; ever blissful. He was content in giving his clothes a wash in the stream and lying in his underwear, gazing at constellations he didn't know the names of. She wondered if it was because he couldn't remember himself. If that was what made him peaceful. She wondered if it had to do with his age. He didn't know that, either. He didn't have a last name, and barely a first. She thought it made him limitless. He had no sense of time, because he had no certainty of when he would die.

 _She_ was thirty, though. She had estimates; she had predictions. And she figured that must be why she was so sweaty, so miserable.

The fire crackled and she wracked her brain some more. She found a lump in her throat, and however faint it seemed, it still pressed against her. "Link." She croaked.

He turned his head, humming inquisitively and stretching his toes.

"I…must tell you something." She swallowed. It was more for her to hear than for him. Because she refused to speak to just an open flame. She wouldn't find a friend in the fire. "I don't think I know who I am."

The boy cocked his head and sat up. He said nothing, but moved closer to hear better. "I shave my beard so no one may see it. I put colors on my face to hide. But no matter how much I cover…" She furrowed her brow and turned her head slightly. Eye contact was difficult. "It always bubbles back to the surface."

Link sat doe-eyed. He had no desire to speak. He had ears suited to listen with. Though, her statements confused him.

"This blood on my clothes- it isn't mine. But it makes me uneasy. If I had not seen this blood spilled by your own hand, it would be… indiscernible from my own. So why do I feel so singled out? If the blood is the same, so is the body. I shouldn't feel as repulsive as I do." She huffed and gripped the fabric around her chest. She scratched at the dried liquid, attempting to undo it; remove the stain. It was no use. It frustrated her.

She pulled the god forsaken thing off, tossing it into a stagnant puddle. She sat towards the fire still, in nothing but her trousers and a bra. She wondered why she bothered wearing it all the way out here. She had no secret to hide from the boy; he knew it all. She had no breast to cover, no skin to conceal. "No matter what I do, I still wonder why there's a hole inside me."

Link inhaled and exhaled, wondering if his doing so made her think he was exasperated. It wasn't his intention, so he inched closer. He was now sitting close enough to touch knees with her. He tightened his muscles. Every moment of contact made his heart pound, for she felt untouchable to him. She seemed celestial in his eyes, though she was blinded to it herself.

"Won't you say something?" She asked softly, her amber eyes penetrating him.

He pursed his lips. What could he say? He knew her angst stretched leaps and bounds beyond what was fathomable. Her stories threw her into fits of tears for the fact that she could not remember them silently. What could he say to a heart so battered? Yet she gazed upon him with silent desperation. "Vilia," he breathed out. "I… it's okay."

Her eyes fell and she sat that way for a moment. Only a moment. The corners of her mouth twitched, and it was at that minute Link noticed the flimsy smile on her face.

She reminded him of someone; someone he couldn't see. The Princess. But this one… she was harder. More stoic. Less of a scientist and more of a seamstress. More volatile, but still just as gentle under her brittle shell. He wanted to touch her, thinking perhaps he could transfer whatever he had that she wanted so badly into her. But he hesitated, for even in her vulnerable state, she seemed so sovereign.

He outstretched his arm and hovered it above her bare shoulder. His fingers came down to connect with her skin, and he flinched momentarily before finally settling his entire palm, cupping her shoulder gently.

She craned her neck upwards and turned her head to face him. At every moment, she had been hyper-aware, for fear that she would be tricked. At every moment, she had been ready, except now. This had pulled something away from the floodgates behind her eyes. The simple touch made her break. Through the recounting of her traumas, she had sobbed privately. When confronted with injury, she let a few tears slip here and there. But this was something she didn't do often. She pulled her legs close to her chest and gripped her shins, sobbing directly into her knees. "Why," she begged, "why do you treat me this way?"

Link was caught by surprise. What way? He tilted his head to the side and rubbed his thumb along her bare shoulder some more.

"Can't you see how hideous I am? That's all I'll ever be to anyone. You must be using me."

Link shook his head. This made him nervous. The memories flooded back as if he had remembered them a second time. The Princess, collapsed into his arms, a bloody mess of tears and uncontrollable wails, wondering what she had done wrong and why no one would tell her the way to mend it until it was too late.

He didn't remember what he had said to her, if he had said anything at all. He still struggled with the personality he was so desperate to replicate, and in turn he wondered what he would have said in this situation one-hundred years ago. But everything had slipped his mind when he was faced with Vilia's tears, her red hair spilling over her shoulders as she wailed. Link had not perceived her this way, and it was jarring to him.

She inhaled deeply and sniffed. "I do wish I didn't act this way. It's pathetic."

"No." Link interjected abruptly. Though he was not certain of what he could say to her, his denial of her self-deprecation was nearly immediate. "You're… tired." He whispered. Was "tired" right? She surely looked tired.

"I… I suppose you're right."

"You… need dinner." He said through a meager smile. If there was any one thing Link knew his way around, it was a pot. She'd told him he was good at this, many weeks ago, as she slurped down noodles and fish. It was her first genuine smile for him, and as alone as he observed himself to be, he treasured it like a gift.

Link opened his pack and produced a small frying pan and an even smaller basket. Within the basket was a brick of ice, and underneath, one medium-sized trout. He held the pot with a thick rag, setting the fish inside and waiting to add the necessary spices. It was all makeshift; he had planned to cook it in a proper setting. But his stomach and her tears told him otherwise.

She watched him hold the cast iron pan above the fire and she blinked away her tears. _"Such a silly matter to cry over."_ Vilia supposed, _"It's no better than sobbing over a broken nail."_ Her gaze flicked from the pan to its wielder. "Isn't it hot?" She mumbled.

"Yes." He answered.

He shook the pan to ensure the fish would not stick, and after a time of doing this, he added fine garlic and herbs that would be considered gourmet if the world hadn't been so desolate. Finally, the scent began to drift away from the pan and into the air. He gazed across the fire at Vilia, hoping that his favorite part was hers, too.

Thin, wet stripes cascaded down her face, delicate tear droplets falling from her eyes as she blinked. The pan sizzled, and she took a deep breath in, shutting her eyes and tensing her shoulders. Upon a heavy exhale, she reopened her eyes and stared into the pan. "I apologize," she said, sniffing only once. "I normally manage myself on a very disciplined level."

Link flipped the trout and gazed across the flame at Vilia. He knew she was only so strict to keep herself a secret.

"I do hope you'll forgive my outbursts."

"Why forgive emotions?" He asked.

She gazed into his face through her mess of red hair. He looked small, squatting beside the fire, sloshing the fish around in the pan. Her breathing slowed and her lungs filled with garlic-scented air. She exhaled and unfastened her earrings. "You're something. Aren't you?"

Link watched the trout attentively, absorbing her words only by ear. He'd hoped she wouldn't think him to be ignoring her. He didn't want it to burn. It had to be perfect. For her; for her tears.

Vilia lied back onto the icy rocks. The flame from the fire hit her bare form, and gave her warmth in places that seemed hollow and cold. "I wish I had been more like you." She said. "I used to be so good with a bow. My village was full of people. And none of them could beat me. My mother, she…"

Link saw her eyes flicker with nostalgia. But within that nostalgia lied a longing. A remembrance; mourning.

"She carved me a bow. A beautiful thing. Made out of teak. I used it for two years, in these competitions we'd hold in my village. I was planning on making use of it for that time and then I'd hang it up."

The fire snapped; the fish sizzled in the pan, and Link listened more intently than he had ever listened before.

"One day a group of travelers came to the settlement to enter their boy. They said he was immaculate with the bow. You know, that sort of thing. And he was. He bested me. Split my arrow in half."

Link flipped the trout. It was almost ready.

"I walked back home, tears in my eyes, and he followed me. He found me and snapped my bow right over his knee. Teak gets brittle after a while, you must understand. And would you believe it if I said it crushed me? It took me about six years to ever pick up the bow again."

The fish was on a plate now, sitting to cool for a moment while Link furrowed his brow and sat with his lips parted.

"When my mother died, that bow was all I thought about. How I'd still have it were it not for that… that…" Vilia's blood would have boiled, had she had the energy. But instead it only simmered. Perhaps not even that.

"Dinner." Link whispered. He passed the plate around the flame to Vilia.

Her arm was limp and weak, but she grasped the plate and ran her eyes over its contents. "Had I been more like you I would have gotten back up. But I didn't. I allowed people to kick me over and over, in worse and worse ways. You wouldn't do that."

"I don’t know that." Link said.

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated and took a few breaths. "I don’t know if I'm… that way. I've let lots of people down, I think."

"Come then, no you haven't."

"I don't think you'd believe me."

She smiled gently. "Do you give me such little credit?"

"I.."

"Your fish is good." Vilia murmured. "It always is."

The gentle breeze played against the fire, bending it backwards and removing its heat from the two bodies beside it for a moment. Goosebumps raised on Vilia's desert-worn skin. It was usually warmer in Gerudo Town.

"I bet you're still good." Link muttered.

"What?"

"At the bow. I bet you're still good."

Vilia shrugged. "My hands are made for sewing now. I'm not a sharpshooter. Not after all that happened."

Link saw it in her eyes. A hopefulness that she could be as good as she always had been , but a distrust that she would deliver. Her muscles said that she was still ambitious, firm and intimidating like the Gerudos' were. Yet her hands were dainty, soft to the touch with lengthened nails and nimble fingers. He twisted around and dug his hands into his pack yet again.

"More food?" She inquired.

"No." From the depths of his bag he produced a small quiver of five arrows. He pushed his bow along the uneven rocks towards her. The quiver rested in his palm. "Show me."

**Author's Note:**

> I did this because I love Vilia and think there is lots of room to work with the character and develop her as I see fit. She seems rather tragic to me, and I've decided this was also a good way to explore a sort of slice-of-life style. I had fun writing this and hope you enjoyed it too!


End file.
